


Chips

by hitthehospital



Series: Shoes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Chips - Freeform, Dancer!Sherlock, Hate Crime, Highschool AU, Homophobia, M/M, My My, SHERLOCK KNOWS JOHN HE KNOWS, better be safe than sorry, first date... Ish, maybe??? I don't know, rugby!john, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7752286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitthehospital/pseuds/hitthehospital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't stop thinking about the strange boy from chemistry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chips

**Author's Note:**

> Grammar and spelling corrections are always welcome!

John's new rugby club was like every other one he had been a member. Boys his year and above diving on a cold, muddy pitch to get to the try line; kicking practise, tackling practise; abusive coach, bantering players; every man and boy throwing around their weight to show dominance - you could even smell the testosterone. God, John loved it.  
However, the incident in the Chemistry lab earlier tilted him off his axis, distracting him the whole session.  
When the practise ended, John quickly changed his boots for tattered white daps and hastily walked out of the grounds, toward the bus stop.

The bus stop was only a five minute walk from club, but he almost walked past it. The light in the shelter was off, leaving it a hollow shell. As John leant in closer, he spotted a poster that read, 'Bus Strike: 7th-10th September'. Today was the 9th. John kicked himself. How could he be so stupid? He sighed, long and hard.  
His shoes slapped on the wet pavement as he walked down the ever-darkening street. Street lamps and shop fronts lit the road, the orange and cream light reflecting on the soaked Tarmac and black windows. Alleyways and back streets lay like gaping black holes, tears in the artificially lit world. Cars sped past, spraying John's feet with water. Rain started to drizzle, blanketing him in the cold and the damp. But all he could think about was the strange boy with the pale eyes.  
John continued to walk, not concentrating. It took him too long to realise he didn't recognise his surroundings. That he was lost. Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes seemed like the least of his worries.  
John pulled his kit bag closer to his chest and quickened his pace. He needed to find somewhere to stay, at least until he was sure about where he was. The buildings around him were mainly houses, pubs, kebab shops, an old Chinese takeaway. There were so many dark corners, so many places to-  
And then he heard it. A groan. It was probably his mind playing tricks in the dark- but he heard another noise, a shout. To his left. In the alley.  
John slowly turned, facing the dark. He trembled, his legs too weak to run if needed.  
There came another muffled groan. John slowly took his key out of his bag.  
His eyes adjusted to the darkness.  
And only one word could form in his mouth; "Sherlock?"

Sherlock on the floor. Nose bloodied.  
Three men around him. One with blood on his knuckles. Faces contorted with anger.  
They turned to look at John.  
One of the men's faces twisted into a grin. "Is this your boyfriend?" He sneered to Sherlock. The man turned to John, "You a fag like him?"  
John opened his mouth. No words came out.  
"I said, are you with this fag?" He started to walk towards John. John's feet were glued to the floor. His hands shook. He tried to run, tried to speak, tried to run away -  
The man towered above him. "ANSWER ME YOU PUSSY!"  
John felt the impact on his cheek long before he could register what it was. His head hit the Tarmac, sending a second dose of agony shooting through his head. He curled into a ball, shielding his head with his arms. Each kick sent ricochetting pain through his body. He heard someone cry out, someone yell. It could have been him. He didn't know.  
It felt like an eternity until the kicking stopped.  
"John? John?" The voice sounded very far away. "John?"  
Warm hands gently pried his arms away from his head, rolling him onto his back.  
John opened his eyes.  
A blurry image of black and white and blue and red came into to focus.  
"Sherlock?"  
"How many fingers?" Sherlock held a hand in front of John's vision.  
"What?"  
"John," the boy asked sternly. "How many fingers?"  
John squinted. "Three."  
"Good, you don't have concussion." The hand dropped. "With that in mind, do you want to get something to eat?"  
Now John was sure he was hearing things. "What?"  
Sherlock smiled.

The café they sat in was situated 500 meters down the road from where they were attacked, which John thought was a very bad idea. Sherlock defended his choice by stating the café had "great chips".  
John sat in the corner of the room, away from the window, which he did think was a good idea.  
He stared at the checkered linoleum table cloth, his head and ribs still thumping, so many thoughts running through his head-  
A red plastic basket of chips and two cans were dropped on the table, cutting his thinking short. John looked up. Sherlock sat opposite him, blue eyes watching carefully. His nose had swollen.  
"I think you should be more concerned about yourself, Sherlock," John sighed. "You're the one with the broken nose."  
"You're the one with two cracked ribs."  
John chuckled, wincing from the pain in his chest. "Shouldn't we be in A&E?"  
Sherlock smiled softly, sliding a can of lemonade toward him. "Drink it, for the shock."  
"I'm not in shock."  
Sherlock just stared.  
"Fine, I'll drink your bloody lemonade."  
Sherlock sat back and folded his arms, contented, as John took a sip.  
"What the hell was that about in the alley, anyway," John asked, leaning forward.  
Sherlock's eyes skated over him for a couple of seconds, as if he was judging whether John could be trusted. Finally, he took a deep breath, untangling his arms. "I... Dance." He said cautiously.  
That definitely wasn't what John was expecting.  
"I do contemporary mostly, but sometimes tap and ballet. I compete sometimes and..."  
But then again, this explained the fluidity of his movement.  
It took John a while to realise Sherlock had stopped talking and was now scowling at him. "What's that face for?" John asked, confused.  
"There's a reason I don't tell people, John, I just thought you would understand."  
"I- what? I wasn't - I was thinking about..." John sighed. "I was thinking about your... Hands."  
"My... Hands?" Sherlock smirked.  
"Yeh..." John ducked his head.  
Sherlock's chair creaked as he leant forward. "What's so special about my hands, Joh-"  
"-you didn't answer my question."  
Sherlock sighed and sat back again. "The studio I dance in isn't far from that alley you found me in. The men, if we can call them that, were outside. When they saw me leave they decided to shout abuse at me from across the street. I ignored them and carried on walking, only they wouldn't stop," Sherlock's wavered slightly as his mouth dropped. John blinked, and he was smiling again. "Anyway, I turned to them and implied one of them - the one who hit you actually, sorry about that - wasn't being quite truthful about which team he played for." Sherlock grinned, causing John to smirk back.  
John's face fell slightly. "Why you, though?"  
Sherlock laughed bitterly. "You know, male dancer, has to be gay-"  
"-and are you? Which is okay, totally-"  
"-I know it is," Sherlock mumbled, looking toward the café window. He smiled suddenly, turning to John. "I'm sure you know that too, John Watson."  
John felt sick. Surely, he couldn't know- John chuckled cautiously, smarting at his ribs. "I'm not..."  
Sherlock's gaze was steady, face serious. "Hands."  
John swallowed.  
Sherlock sat forward again. "About the deduction earlier, how did I do?"  
"What?"  
Sherlock sighed. "You do like saying that word, don't you - with the shoes, when I asked about your brother."  
"Oh, that," how could he forget that? "Well, I was given the shoes by Harry, and Harry was fired, but..."  
"But what?"  
"Harry is short for Harriet." John smirked.  
Sherlock grinned back. "I always get something wrong."  
"Not too shabby, though."  
"Not too shabby."


End file.
